Ad Nomad

by Eric Jay Sonnenschein

  “You’ll see how it works,” Roscoe said confidently like he already knew he and Dane were a cinch to shoot the commercial.

  Dane viewed this early partnership with Roscoe as a sign of Sheldon’s and Nadine’s confidence in him. Roscoe was a top-flight designer and the godfather of Nadine’s children. If Dane impressed Roscoe, Nadine and Sheldon would favor him. Yet, collaborating with Roscoe held significant risk.

  The bald curmudgeon should have had “Dangerous Explosives” stamped on his skull. Maybe he hid it under the stocking cap which he pulled over his eyelids like a wooly condom. When he worked, Roscoe glared at his monitor like a crazed derelict, his blotched face knotted like a fist. Festivities also set Roscoe on edge. When the department took Dane to lunch on his first day, Roscoe threw a breadstick into his minestrone bowl and bolted without explanation.

  At their first brainstorming session, Roscoe stared at Dane and dared him to have an idea. Dane knew he had better show his creativity and strategic insight, so he blurted a concept: policewomen in uniform, judges in robes and construction workers in orange bibs all conveying one message: Women with tough jobs have tough menopausal symptoms. This appealed to the working woman’s feminine side. One headline read, “You earn like a man and you burn like a woman.”

  Roscoe nodded. “That covers hot flashes,” he said. Dane sensed he had Roscoe’s approval, if not his respect. After this salvo, Dane deferred to Roscoe, with his years of experience in television and print. When Dane expressed self-doubt, Roscoe responded kindly, “No worries. You’re doing fine.”

  Then they hit an impasse.

  Roscoe hated Dane’s favorite headline and refused to show it. Dane implored him to compromise.

  “Let it go!” Roscoe rebuked him. “Be professional. When I say, ‘No,’ it’s no.”

  Dane chafed at this interpretation of “professional” but swallowed his indignation. Commercials were new to him. Maybe Roscoe knew better.

  When Dane and Roscoe presented their work, Sheldon perused one concept. “This could be the one but it needs a better headline.” He closed his eyes and recited one. It was Dane’s headline—the one Roscoe rejected.

  Dane had repressed his ego all week to accommodate Roscoe. Now it detonated.

  “That’s my headline!” Dane cried.

  “What?” Sheldon asked. “I just said it.”

  “I wrote it but he vetoed it!”

  “You unprofessional scumbag!” Roscoe excoriated Dane. “I won’t work with him again!”

  The volatile art director stormed out of Sheldon’s office.

  Jousting with Roscoe was unexceptional. Even equable Sheldon, whom Roscoe once called a chipmunk and a putz, argued with him. However, Dane’s fight with Roscoe was remarkable for its speed and rancor.

  Nadine, who had viewed the new copywriter as her Christmas gift to Uncle Roscoe, now regarded Dane like she had to return him for store credit.

  “You have to trust your partner,” she rebuked him.

  “Yes,” Sheldon added, “Trust, err…the essence of partnership.”

  “He said my headline sucked. He has no taste!” Dane replied.

  “Trust trumps taste,” Sheldon corrected Dane, quoting from his own unwritten text, The Book of Sheldon. “Taste is a sensation; trust is an unchanging truth. I have written many headlines Nadine vetoed and I have killed many of her layouts.”

  “My layouts never die!” Nadine interjected. “But if one did, I would handle it.”

  Dane still had no inkling that his pairing with Roscoe was no vote of confidence but a live sacrifice to Roscoe, who, like an Aztec priest, routinely tore promising headlines from the heads of new copywriters and served them, pulsating with articulate energy, to Sheldon. Now, because the sacrificial copywriter spoke out of turn, the rite was disrupted. Sheldon asked Dane to stay behind. They needed to talk.

  3. THE BEE AND THE FLOWER

  “We have an efficient creative eco-system here,” the genial creative director explained. “Everyone works together. We can’t have people hating each other.”

  “But it was a great headline,” Dane said, “—which you confirmed by coming up with the same one.”

  “Dane, this is irrelevant. We do things differently here,” Sheldon said, bracing his left wrist with his right hand. At first, Dane thought Sheldon clutched his wrist as a sign of strength or osteoarthritis. But his wrist was tired due to the heavy Swiss watch which encircled it. “I know my earring and good hair make me look young but I’ve been in this business for fifty years. Nadine and I have 85 years of combined experience. We know our clients. At Integrimedicom we share ideas and bring them together. Like bees, we collect pollen from flowers. You may not be the flower type.”

  Sheldon stated his observation with profundity, as if the bee and flower were yin and yang and knowing which one you were was the litmus of creative identity. Dane despised passivity but loved his income. He confronted his first moment of truth. After implying his boss was a plagiarist, he knew contrition was a must.

  “I want to be a flower, Sheldon,” Dane pleaded. “But I also want to do great work.”

  “You do, Dane. But creativity is not holding on, it’s letting go,” Sheldon said, quoting himself from The Book of Sheldon, his unofficial oral tradition of Integrimedicom wisdom. “We don’t force ideas or cling to them. We let them come to us.”

  Sheldon was adept at having ideas come to him, Dane thought. That was the problem.

  Nadine poked her head in the doorway. “Shel, we’re late for the overactive bladder patients and menopausal women focus group interface.”

  “Yes, excuse me, Dane” Sheldon replied. “There is learning when those groups collide.”

  Nadine agreed. “Cross-pollinating brands may provide multiple orgasms…I meant promotional opportunities.”

  “We know what you meant. Will they let us order from that fourstar restaurant?” Sheldon asked. Before Sheldon and Nadine left for research, Sheldon called in Leslie Goldfarb, the most senior and lowest ranking art director.

  “Goldfarb, would you team with Dane? Roscoe is working on another project.”

  Goldfarb escorted Dane to his office. The wiry, white-haired art director was an advertising veteran of 25 years. For six of those years he had been hanging on at Integrimedicom. This was Dane’s best job to date but for Goldfarb it was a parking lot.

  Although Goldfarb evinced the self-effacing wisdom of one who accepted a stalemate with life, the former photographer and top-flight art director might have qualified in some minds as a defeated hasbeen. Within the hierarchy of Integrimedicom, teaming with Goldfarb was a demotion, but Dane liked the wiry art director with the weary eyes. Goldfarb moved loosely, languidly like water, and despite a selfconfessed lack of taste—the man loved cheap thrillers, smoothies and chick flicks, and conceded that he wasn’t deep—he had dignity and a subtle energy. As with scribes of old, Goldfarb’s knowledge of his craft, of life’s rhythms and the sun’s warmth, were written in the composure of his face and his forbearing eyes. Most agency people hoarded experience like a personal deodorant while sharing cynicism freely. Not Goldfarb. Battered, not bitter, he was candid and inspired trust.

  “Do you think Sheldon came up with your headline because he’s a mind-reader?” Goldfarb asked. “It was a set up! A mini-conspiracy! Roscoe thought your headline was too good for you, so he gave it to Sheldon, who pretended it was his.”

  “A conspiracy to steal my concept? I didn’t know a conspiracy could be so small.”

  “Where have you been? Do you read the papers? The internet?” Goldfarb inquired, his eyes peering at Dane as if he were searching for intelligent life in him. “There is no democracy anymore. It’s one big conspiracy. There are conspiracies at the highest level and they trickle down to your concept. It’s trickle-down conspiracy!”

  “Okay. So they conspired to steal my work. Did they expect me not to react? How can I make a name for myself if people steal my ideas?”

  Go
ldfarb probed his molars with his finger to remove sticky candy.

  “They don’t care about your career. They’re paying you.”

  “What kind of place is this?” Dane asked.

  “You’re finding out.”

  4. HOW COPYWRITING GOT ITS NAME

  For two weeks after his run-in with Roscoe, Dane disciplined his ego with drudgery. Each day he practiced the rigor of executing projects others started. He embraced the process by moving kits, stickers, pens, and other innocuous items to production. When copy was to be written, Dane transcribed pre-approved language from earlier versions and took pleasure and pride in how well he could do this elementary school task.

  He believed his diligence and self-mastery were noted and rewarded when a creative assignment finally came his way. It was like a feast day erupting from the flatline of routine. The department convened and Sheldon and Nadine took turns reading the ten page creative brief.

  Dane now teamed with Goldfarb, the old master of self-abasement. Goldfarb was a mental yogi. He could make his ego very small so it seemed not to exist. He also put it through contortions. When Goldfarb’s talents were impugned, his layouts defamed and his designs vilified, he showed no emotion. With these qualities in mind, Sheldon assigned Goldfarb to be Dane’s partner. “Les, I want you to mentor Dane in the ways of Integrimedicom. Teach him to let go, rather than to hold on.”

  Goldfarb smiled. “I don’t know if it can be taught. It’s a special gift to have your ego squashed like a bug—and not care.”

  The humble art director and the arrogant copywriter collaborated well. When Dane struggled for the right words, he stared out the mullioned windows at Soho’s rooftop water towers while Goldfarb, the ego-control yogi, sat on the sill, soaking up winter sun and conserving energy for his long trek back to Connecticut. When Dane blurted a headline Goldfarb liked, the yogi smiled and said, “Nice. I like it!” When Dane proposed a concept Goldfarb hated, the wily art director said, “Eh!” and they explored further. It was a partnership.

  On the eve of the creative review, Dane and Goldfarb had seven concepts with headlines and tags. Goldfarb taped them to his wall. The partners sat back and savored their work.

  “I feel good about this, Dane,” Goldfarb said. “We have some winners.”

  “The world encompassed in a toilet bowl is pure genius,” Dane admitted. “It says it all about overactive bladder.”

  Suddenly Ronny, the copywriter, walked into the office. He wore black framed glasses and a plaid shirt buttoned to the collar. Ronny was from overseas and had extensive pharmaceutical experience. He had survived one year at the fabled I.M. Pecker, a venerable agency where the legendary Seymour Glom and his lieutenant, Dex Pez, stood at reception at 9 AM, checking who came in a minute late so they could fire them.

  “Sup?” Ronny asked, scoping the office. “Got your shit on the wall to see if it stinks? I mean sticks.”

  “We’re in good shape,” Goldfarb said. “How about you?”

  “Been working on the motherfuggin’ recall letter for defective Vulcan Shield IUDs. No chance to brainstorm, man.”

  “How’s your ass?” Goldfarb asked.

  Ronny was unusually broad around the pelvis. Painful growths had been surgically removed from his anus, which now required 24/7 protection. The brilliant immigrant smacked his rump, causing a plastic wad around his hips to gasp pneumatically.

  “Still got stitches. Can’t enjoy my dump,” Ronny said.

  “Ass injuries are the worst,” Goldfarb said sympathetically.

  “A good crap was once my shining bliss but toilet seats are no longer thrones. They are rings of fire,” said the non-native master of metaphor. “I need a powdered donut: baby powder, not Krispy Kreme.”

  “Krispy Kreme should pay you NOT to say that,” Goldfarb retorted, grimacing.

  “I should sue these muvvahs,” Ronny replied, by which he meant Integrimedicom, Inc., “The chairs kill my ass, man.”

  As the agency gossip, Ronny was always pumping for information. When he had it, he spread it like manure. He had a passion for scams, posing as a student for a phony discount subscription to the Wall Street Journal and announcing his birthday several times a year, so his memory-challenged colleagues would buy him lunch on a quarterly basis. With the amount he saved on food and news, Ronny claimed he was able to buy a Rolex, which he wore on special occasions like payday. Calling his Swiss watch “an investment,” he held his arm against his chest to protect his investment from smacking walls.

  Ronny viewed copywriting in terms of caste. He deduced that only Sheldon and Nadine, the creative directors, had creative license, although they compelled all staffers to devise concepts, headlines and tags. This confusing dilemma for most creatives was for Ronny a technicality. He knew his duty was to fall short creatively, so Sheldon and Nadine would laugh, believe themselves to be geniuses and value Ronny as a creatively deficient employee.

  For this reason, Ronny never agonized over blank paper or wracked his brain for ideas. When a creative review loomed, he circulated like cholesterol in colleagues’ offices, took mental notes of their work and copied the headlines and concepts he liked.

  As Ronny scanned the layouts on the wall, Dane recognized him as a threat. He told Goldfarb to remove their concepts—but too late. Sensing his cue to exit, Ronny rubbed his nose, waved and ambled away.

  The next day Ronny and his teammate presented their work first. When Dane and Goldfarb followed, Sheldon and Nadine laughed.

  “Another toilet bowl world!” Nadine chided. “You couldn’t have an original idea?”

  “The toilet bowl world is ours!” Dane shouted.

  “We just saw it,” Sheldon remarked.

  “And plagiarizing Ronny of all people! He doesn’t have a creative bone,” Nadine jeered.

  Dane looked at Ronny’s concept, then at Goldfarb.

  “He stopped by our office yesterday and stole it from us. We should have removed everything from the wall!” Dane replied hotly.

  “Calm down,” Goldfarb whispered.

  “It could be a coincidence,” Sheldon conciliated. “Simultaneous brainstorms are common as with most weather systems.”

  “Some ideas are so obvious, everybody has them,” Nadine added.

  “A toilet bowl world is fresh and not obvious. I didn’t plagiarize it!” Dane shouted.

  Sheldon was shocked by Dane’s vehemence. Even Nadine was taken aback.

  “Call in Ronny,” Nadine said. She pretended to mediate while goading Dane. Everyone knew Ronny stole ideas. It was deemed an honor since he was a discriminating thief. But Nadine had something special planned. She wanted Dane to confront Ronny and go berserk. After a quiet week, she deserved to be entertained! She had decided Dane was a bad fit and wanted him gone. If Dane lost control, Sheldon would have to fire him to ensure office harmony and security.

  Ronny appeared. He wore his Rolex, as he always did for a creative presentation, and held his left wrist in front of him. Sheldon happened to be wearing his Rolex as well.

  “Nice watch,” Sheldon told Ronny, flattered by his subordinate’s mimicry.

  “Thank you, sir,” Ronny replied. “It is only stainless steel, not plated gold like yours.”

  “You’ll get there,” Sheldon reassured him.

  “Have you seen this before?” Nadine asked, indicating the disputed concept.

  The resourceful permanent resident stared at the printout without expression or recognition.

  “No way. These eyes never made visual contact with that object. Absolutely not!” Ronny insisted.

  “He’s covering his ass!” Dane cried.

  Sheldon and Nadine looked at one another.

  “You showed us this concept ten minutes ago,” Nadine said, rolling her eyes.

  “I did? Oh, yeah,” he said. “You make an excellent point. If I wrote it, I must have seen it.”

  “You saw it, all right,” Dane cried. “In Goldfarb’s office.”

  “It’
s hard not to see things and be influenced,” Ronny conceded calmly. “I might have dreamed it, too. My dreams are full of crap.”

  “If it’s crap, why did you take credit for it?” Dane blurted. Goldfarb restrained him.

  “I was only doing my job. I am a copywriter. It is my job to copy and to write,” Ronny said unequivocally, as if quoting an eternal truth from a holy text of plagiarism.

  Sheldon dismissed Ronny.

  Goldfarb negotiated the awkward aftermath. He explained that he and Dane created the concepts and Ronny saw them on the wall. Sheldon and Nadine accepted the story but rather than apologize to Dane for accusing him of plagiarism, they admonished him for making a scene.

  “You’ll give yourself a stroke if you get worked up over such a trifle,” Nadine said, as if concerned for the mental health she did her utmost to undermine.

  “It’s my integrity,” Dane explained, his hands and voice shaking. “When I present work, it’s mine. That’s my guarantee, my bond.”

  “Integrity is to believe in but professional courtesy is to bond with,” Sheldon sanctimoniously quoted himself. He asked Dane to stay behind—again. A nervous grin gripped Dane’s facial muscles, as he poised for castigation or termination.

  “Dane, your work is outstanding but your interaction is unacceptable.”

  “I’m sorry, Sheldon. I have to defend my reputation; it’s all I have.”

  “Without colleagues who will work with you, you have even less!” Sheldon replied. The creative director averted his eyes from Dane to multi-task on his computer monitor. He studied LL Bean online while meting out discipline.

  “How well do you know Ronny?” Sheldon asked. “My guess is not at all. Ronny appears to be a thief. In fact, he is a cultural victim. Ronny knows he has a problem. He borrows other people’s ideas without permission. We’re aware of it. He’s getting help. But why does he have this problem? Ronny is sublimating his people’s long history of subjugation and accommodation. His ethnic group is very old and it only survived by ‘copying’ a succession of dominant cultures. First it was the Babylonians, then the Assyrians, then the Medes, followed by Persians, Arabs, Kazakhs, Mongols, Turks, the French, the British and now the Americans. His people have copied so many cultures that now nobody knows much about them. It’s in Ronny’s cultural DNA to copy.”